Guardian Angel
by Riptide2
Summary: "I have a guardian angel. She's tiny, but very tough." - A year after the murder of his partner, former Special Agent Callen is still being hunted by the DEA and a group of Romani assassins. They're not the only ones either. Henrietta Lange has had her eye on him for longer than she'll ever admit but as the hit teams close in she'll have to work fast to earn his trust. Pre-series.
1. Go with God

Guardian Angel

Chapter 1: "Go with God..."

Hetty: _"Go with God, Mr. Callen, or whoever it is that watches over you."_

Callen: _"I have a guardian angel. She's tiny, but very tough."_

 _Season 1, Episode 18: "Blood Brothers"_

 _Town of Somova, Northern Romania_

 _June 15, 2006_

A marshy, swamp on one side and empty fields on the other the town of Somova sat on the crest of northern Romania, barely three and a half miles south of the Ukraine border. A smattering of downtrodden homes and businesses that had been passed down through the same families for generations lined a cracked stretch of two-lane highway. In the midst of this, a mother reached for her children with frantic suspicion as a pair of blacked out SUVs coasted down the street. Her son and elder daughter tucked carefully under her arm, she turned a blind eye as a group of heavily armed men swarmed from the blatantly foreign vehicles.

Concrete block walls raised two stores over the street, the tarnished red metal roof glaring in the bright early-summer sun as the tactical team moved to surround the abandoned metal works. Inside the building's lone occupant watched from the shadows, before turning aside. Slipping a worn leather jacket over his shoulders, he reached out for the backpack sitting beside him. He tucked a well-used USMC ka-bar knife into the side of his right boot before dropping silently from the second floor rafters to the cracked cement floor. His fingers twitched to brush over the grip of the Walther P99 holstered in the back of his jeans. He'd been too slow this time, let them get too close and he wouldn't be able to disappear without being seen. A shadow fell across the door and he drew his nine mm in one smooth motion, bright ice blue eyes fixed on the one and only exit.

Three thousand miles away, Henrietta Lange stepped down the marble corridor as silently as the ghost she was. Few architectural wonders compared with the U.S. Capitol Building, and yet Hetty would never see it as anything but stifling. Certainly not the place she would have chosen for her albeit temporary office. Still she had to wonder if these sights of American pride weren't the same ones Ignatius Donnelly had looked upon as he wrote, _"Let us build broad and wide these foundations. Let them abut only on the everlasting seas."_

She turned down a side hallway, pausing in front of the third door down, years of experience in places the world chose to forget telling her she was in no way alone anymore. One small hand dipped down into her bag, closing around the grip of her Sig Sauer P290. The bureaucrats saw her as a dinosaur of a by-gone era and even the few who still called her friend admitted that she wore paranoia as well as her finest chiffon scarf, but Hetty hadn't lived as long as she had by being an easy target. Her enemies could get to her here as well as anywhere.

She turned the knob silently, her short stature preventing her from casting a shadow across the glass windowed door.

Three steps inside the door and Hetty abandoned her pistol in favor of reaching for the manila envelope lying across her immaculate desktop. She turned to the shadows, addressing them as easily as an old friend, "Are you quite done lurking, Michael?"

"Still as sharp as ever, I see, Henrietta." The operative stalked from the shadows with the grace of a jungle cat, completely at ease with breaking into the Pentagon as only a CIA trained legend could be. And Michael Smith was exactly that, the name as obviously phony as the Cuban cigars he'd been toting the first time they met.

He was also the only one she could trust with her current project, her chance at redemption.

"How much do you want for this?" Hetty asked despite already knowing the answer. Michael was a business man, one who dealt in a commodity far more valuable than the U.S. dollar.

Predictably, he shrugged, "A favor to be called in later that is all. I would not wait too long with this one Henrietta. The Roma are getting closer."

Hetty looked up from the file in her hands, a carefully professional mask hiding the panic that her dark eyes couldn't. "Don't play games with me, Michael. How close are they?"

He turned towards the door, far more objective than sentiment would allow her to be, "He's very good, but so are they. It could be months, Herta, weeks, maybe less."

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving her in the dark as she peered down at the file on Clara Callen's only son.


	2. Who watches over you?

Chapter 2: "Who watches over you?"

 _Chisinau, Moldova_

 _ **June 29, 2006**_

Callen twisted, one hand coming up to catch his opponents flying fist. It'd been an unfair fight from the beginning. His opponent had five inches on him, the kind of muscle that meant that he could probably tie someone into a pretzel without breaking a sweat, and absolutely no idea just how outclassed he was.

He'd been called _the Ghost_ by the CIA and it was an apt moniker. His ability to disappear honed by over half a decade as one of the CIA's best operatives. This wasn't a situation he could disappear from though, at least not easily. He'd have to run, gather his scant belongings and be out of the country by the end of the day. He hated running. It was messy, left too much of a trail.

First though he'd have to deal with his would be assassin. He'd been hunted all through Romania, dodging professional killers and hired mercs from the moment he'd set foot on the coast of the Black Sea. Either the CIA had gotten more resourceful in their attempts to eliminate him or he had a new enemy on his tail. He dodged to the left, taking advantage of his smaller stature to get behind the other man. Callen kicked him in the back of the knees - years of being the smallest guy in a fight meant that he knew every dirty trick in the book – and in seconds his attempted murder was kneeling in front of him, Callen's arm wrapped around his throat with enough force to keep him there.

"You're ex-special forces," Callen growled in his ear. He can feel the ruthlessness of the Ghost creeping up on him. It's kept him alive in the past; let him do things that have violated every moral of civilized society, and part of him wonders if he shouldn't be frightened by how easily it's coming back even five years later. "Russian, going by the gun, but the Kremlin didn't send you after me, did they?"

The man's eyes dart away, going to his pistol lying discarded at the mouth of the alley and Callen tightens his hold in warning. "Did they?"

The prone man shakes his head as much as Callen's hold will allow, and G's eyes narrow. "Who are you working for? Who wants me dead?"

He can feel it the instant the man's muscles tighten under his hands, _knows_ he's not going to get anything more out of him, and so it's surprising when he starts laughing, "Someone much scarier than you. The Roma send their regards, Mr. Callen."

He hasn't been government spy, at least officially, in half a decade but it's as much a part of him now as ever. Collecting information is second nature, and so is killing to protect that information. His identity has become the only piece of information he has left to protect since going rogue. It's almost funny because you don't realize just how useful a security clearance is until you don't have one anymore. Still he's got dirty little secrets that can shame governments. He could fill a graveyard with the skeletons the CIA's hiding in their nice little sanctioned closets, mostly because he's the one who put them there.

He won't ever use any of them because he still cares about people, even if he doesn't trust them anymore. This man knowing his identity is a problem though, one that has to go away, because it's a threat not only to him, but to all the people around him, all the things he knows that no one should ever find out about. He heaves a sigh because he's never liked the killing that comes with his former job even though he understands the necessity of it.

"I guess I'll just have to send them a message of my own then." Callen drops his voice to a snarl because he hates being toyed with and this is almost exactly how it feels. Then he gives one sharp jerk and his would be murder falls away from him, neck bent at an unnatural angle.

Three stories above him Henrietta Lange turns away from the window. She pauses for a moment trying to dispel the disquiet rising up in her because this is the first time she's laid eyes on the man she's sworn a dead woman to protect and he's either the best damn operator she's ever seen or he's as stone cold as the Agency's files suggest. Hetty shakes her head, letting the dismal yellow curtains fall back to their original place, because she hasn't tracked him half way around the world for nothing. This is Clara's son, the one she'd begged Hetty in that last fateful phone call to protect; he deserves at least the benefit of the doubt and perhaps an explanation.

Hetty crosses to the single row of cupboards that make a pathetic excuse for a kitchen and retrieves her teapot from the countertop burner. It's only as she's stepping down from her stool and toward the table and two chairs on the other side of the door that she stops to question her actions because she just saw him kill a man in an alley so perhaps now isn't the best time for tea. She reaches into her pocket, feels the reassuring weight of her Sig Sauer P290, and smiles. She might be an old lady but she hasn't quite gone batty yet, despite what the bureaucrats like to think.

She fills the stainless steel tea ball with Moroccan Mint Green Tea, pours hot water over it, and then takes the far chair as she listens to footsteps tread down the hallway. She freezes, cup raised halfway to her mouth, as he pauses just outside the door and Hetty has a moment of shock. Either she's slipping or he's realized already that she's here.

Hetty replaces her cup as the door creaks open, contemplates keeping her gun in hand just in case, and then decides against it because there's still something to be said for first impressions. Callen obviously doesn't share her concerns; he's got a gun in one hand and a K-Bar in the other as he steps around the door frame and Hetty's breath catches in her throat because he looks nothing like her but there's no denying that he's Clara's son.

His coloring is opposite his mother's. Clara had dark hair and an olive complexion where her son was the typical American, clear white skin and dirty blonde hair that is just long enough to curl at the nape of his neck and over his ears. They've got the same lithe grace and slight build because Clara was always a petite thing, fragile but far stronger than anyone gave her credit for. He's got his mother's eyes too, brilliant, steely blue but icy in a way that his mother's never were. It's like looking at a ghost, seeing those eyes again.

Hetty's seen pictures of course; she's been following him for far longer than she'll ever admit, but it's not the same. She knows his favorite color, and his shoe size, and the first time he killed a man. Hetty knows he was in foster care since age 5, knows he loved tootsie pops and the beach as a child. She wonders if that's still true because somewhere along the way Hetty lost track of the little boy she's sworn to protect. She was too busy saving the world to realize that that boy had turned into a man who in turn had followed in his mother's footsteps. He's been busy too, she thinks, saving the world in his own way, except its left him far more jaded than his mother ever was.

She knows everything about him, but this is the first time they've actually met and suddenly Hetty doesn't know what to say. Instead she lowers her tea back to the table and hopes for the best, "You're a hard man to find, Agent Callen."

There's a moment of silence, tension thick in the air and then Callen barks a laugh, but it's harsh and there's an edge of bitterness in his tone that makes Hetty cringe. If she had come to him sooner, Hetty wonders, would he still be this jaded? She's collected a lot of regrets over the years, a lot of 'what if's, but right now she thinks he might be the biggest. "I haven't been an agent in over a year."

"Perhaps," She admits, because arguing with him when he still hasn't lowered his weapons might not be the most prudent course of action before she takes a deep breath. "But we both know you never stopped acting as one."

"Then obviously you don't know me very well." Callen takes a step forward, weapons still raised, and there's something predatory in his eyes now. "Did the Agency send you to take me out, Ms. Lange?"

Hetty sucks in a breath, caught between surprise and exasperation because she wasn't expecting that but he's obviously his mother's son and she can see Clara's sharp intelligence in her son's eyes. Hetty reaches for her tea again, letting the warmth sooth her nerves because she never thought that he might already know of her existence or her connection to the Agency. She needs to choose her next words carefully if she ever wants to earn his trust. "If they had, we wouldn't still be having this conversation, Mr. Callen," She meets his gaze evenly, lays both hands on the table and leaves them there. "I came to offer you a job."

He laughs again but this time she can tell it's surprised, not harsh or bitter. His arms lower down to his sides, a slight truce, but he still sounds incredulous and maybe a touch world weary when he says, "I'm not an agent anymore, Ms. Lange. The last time didn't work out so well."

"Hetty," She corrects automatically because Ms. Lange just makes her feel old before she sobers, returning his earlier bluntness with some of her own, "I'm well aware of the events in New York, Mr. Callen. You can hardly be held responsible for the death of Agent Thompson."

Callen shakes his head, hand twitching to bounce the k-bar off his pant leg half a dozen times before he sheathes it behind his belt, the Walther still in his other hand. He stares down at it for a moment before he holsters that, too. Hetty has absolutely no delusions though; he's just as dangerous without the weapons as ever. "He was my _partner_ , and I got him killed, Ms. Lange." Callen snaps eventually. His eyes are cold now, like twin chips of granite, and Hetty's surprised to find that even she's having a hard time reading him now. "We'll have to agree to disagree."

Hetty purses her lips and doesn't say anything for a long moment. She's got to choose her next words even more carefully. This is the killer instinct that she's talking to now, the same part of him that just killed a man in an alley, but at the same time, she's running out of time to gain his trust. The Roma are getting closer with every moment she tarries and Clara's son has no idea just what kind of threat they can be.

"You have skills, Mr. Callen." Hetty says eventually, meeting his eyes evenly, "Skills that are being wasted here."

He's silent for a long moment, long enough for Hetty's tea to grow cool in her hand before he shakes his head. His eyes are dark, shadowed by a decade of serving his country in ways that country denies and hardened by a year on his own since he killed the woman responsible for his last partner's death.

"You should leave," Callen says eventually, turning his back on her to pull a weapon's case out from under the single bed across the room. She wonders at that silently, making a face at her cold tea. Whether it's a sign of trust or if he simply doubts her ability to even be a threat to him? He watching her a little too closely though when he straightens up and Hetty smiles to herself, a test then, in an environment that he controls. _Well played, Mr. Callen._

There's a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips like he knows what she's thinking. He's reading her far better than operatives she's worked with for years, and abruptly Hetty wonders how she's ever going to keep this secret from him. "Where will you go?" She asks, mainly to distract herself from what she knows would be Clara's disapproval. She'd always trusted Hetty, far too much in the end. "The DEA still believes you to be responsible for Agent Thompson's death. The CIA would rather you be silenced."

"They can try," Callen scoffs then tilts his head at her frown of disapproval. "Why do you care?"

There's genuine curiosity in his tone, like he honestly can't believe that she'd care what happens to him, and it twists something sharp and surprisingly fierce in her gut. _I have a son, Herta._ Clara's voice begs from the past, though it sounds far more accusing now then Hetty remembers, _If anything were to happen, promise me you'll keep him safe._

"Because," Hetty whispers, _because I promised her you'd be safe,_ before she clears her throat and her mind. Hetty meets his gaze head on because she'll keep her secret even if it kills her, "Because I hate to see talent wasted, Mr. Callen."


	3. I have a guardian angel

**_Chapter 3: "I have a guardian angel…"_**

 ** _Moscow, Russia_**

 ** _October 15, 2006_**

He spots Hetty Lange three more times before he reaches the Russian border. She sits in the back of a dingy, little bar in Topaly, Ukraine, and watches from a far on the anniversary of his partner's death. Ten days later she appears out of nowhere on the sidewalk in Barysaw, Belarus to ask if he's done feeling sorry for himself. The encounter leaves him jittery and on edge for days and he can't shake the feeling that he's being followed. Problem is that he can't deny any longer that she's not the only one watching his movements. He seems to be gaining enemies the farther north he goes, and he's ran into two more hired mercs that claim the Roma as their patron.

The third time after Chisinau that he sees Henrietta Lange she's sitting on a bench outside the police station in Pilda, Latvia, waiting for him when he gets done spinning a wildly untruthful tale of the takedown of a group of human traffickers that he'd happened to _witness_. They'll figure out that his involvement was a little more hands on if they bother to dig a little, but he's not going to stick around that long.

She looks up when he leaves, pausing long enough to rip up the lead inspector's card and drop it in the trash. He has no intention of telling them that he was the one to kill the men guarding that shipment of underage girls. Ms. Lange doesn't comment on it beyond a single raised eyebrow, just remarks that if he's going to continue acting as an agent he might as well make it official. He tells her that _no, he's not an agent, not anymore._ He just can't stand to see children suffer, and she's wasting both their time.

That was nearly two months ago and he hasn't seen even a hint of Henrietta Lange since he crossed the Russian border.

Still he can't shake the feeling that he's being watched, even if he knows somehow that it isn't her, and it unnerves him more than he'd like to admit. It's shocking just how quickly he's gotten used to the idea that she's keeping tabs on him, even the CIA hadn't been able to claim that back in his days of being the Ghost.

Although, Callen wonders silently as he stalks down the corridor to the whole in the wall he's been renting for the last two weeks, if those days are really as far off as he remembers because the Ghost is nowhere near as dead and buried as he'd thought. It's been far too easy to slip back into that mindset even five years later, and it makes his skin crawl to think that that person that the CIA had made him into is something he's never going to be able to shake completely.

The door to his rented rooms stands open at the end of the hall, definitely not the same position that he left it in, and Callen curses under his breath as he reaches for his gun because he doesn't have time for this. He's got at least three shooters for the Russian mafia on his tail still, because he'd been stupid and dropped an anonymous tip with the police before he'd realized that the only thing worse than the Bratva in this neighborhood was the cops. He doesn't have time to deal with either a burglar or another hit man right now and he's half tempted to leave it, but the fake IDs for his current aliases are in there as well as his rifle, the same one he's been toting across Europe since he used it to kill the person responsible for his last partner's death, and it seems a shame to leave it now.

Callen plants his shoulder against the door jam, raises his Walther P99, and reaches back to pull the knife from behind his belt. He nudges the door open the rest of the way, wincing when it squeals on rusty hinges, and scans the room over the three dot sights of his gun, and then Callen freezes because there's a dead body on the floor and the last person he expected is sitting in front of the open window.

Hetty looks up calmly to meet his eyes over the lip of her tea cup, blowing on the Silver Tip Jasmine Tea before she raises an eyebrow at the weapons in his hands, "Making friends again, Mr. Callen?"

He shakes his head in disbelief, but he's recovered his composure enough by then to kick the door shut behind him and slide the knife back into place at his back. He keeps the Walther in hand as he runs a careful eye around the room, spotting instantly the handgun resting on the table in front of her tea set. His rooms have obviously been searched, his bags are overturned on the floor and the case containing his Remington 700 is sitting open on the bed, but he doubts somehow that she's the one responsible. An open search like this seems far too obvious for the woman the CIA had dubbed the Duchess of Deception. He's only met Henrietta Lange four times now though so what does he know.

"I'm not the one with the dead body on the floor," he murmurs, stepping over the dead man to stand in front of the window, off to the side just enough to make himself less of a target because sniper awareness is still as ingrained in him now as ever, and if the Bratva can find him than so can the CIA and every other alphabet agency he's ran across in the last sixteen months. "I assume you know what Albert Einstein believed about the definition of insanity, Ms. Lange. My decision still stands, no matter how many times we do this."

"Perhaps," Hetty raises the tea to her lips fighting down the frustration rising through her because she'd hoped that recent events would have changed his mind. He's so very clearly Clara's son though, and he's got his mother's stubbornness. "But Winston Churchill believed that the only thing necessary for the triumph of evil was that good men do nothing."

Callen barks a laugh at that, the sound harsh and bitter and a touch surprised in a way that makes her heart twist because she'd never imagined it would be this hard to look Clara's son in the eyes and not tell him everything. There's a jadedness in those eyes now, a level of distrust that's breathtaking, and Hetty wonders just how much of that is there because of her, because she'd been too busy trying to save the world to save him.

"That's where you're wrong." He stalks forward with all the grace of a jungle cat, a vicious type of anger mirrored in the line of his shoulders and hardening his eyes like twin chips of granite as he leans over the table just into the edge of her space. "I'm not a good man, Ms. Lange. The CIA took care of that."

Hetty's silent for a long moment, trying to work up the will to argue with him because she's read his file and she knows just what kinds of things he's done for the cause of freedom and country. He'd been the CIA's rising star for years with an incredible ability to disappear and an affinity for violence buried under careful control that had served him well. He'd been one of the Agency's best, a claim to fame that you didn't get by keeping your hands clean, and it's painfully clear that Clara's son was part of the same CIA she was, the side of the Agency that sold their souls in the name of the greater good.

"You should leave now, Ms. Lange." Callen says abruptly, his tone pinched tight and filled with loathing. She isn't entirely sure who that loathing is aimed at though, because there's still a whiplash anger in his eyes, darkening the icy blue into twin pools of cobalt, and Hetty doesn't know how to read him at the moment. "I don't need your help, or your pity."

He does though, need her help that is, Hetty thinks with an urgency that's startling because he has no idea just how dangerous the Roma can be and they're getting closer with every second he spends not trusting her. "I'm not the enemy here, Mr. Callen." Hetty looks him straight in the eye and refuses to back down, because she's promised a dead woman that he'd be safe and this might be thirty years in the coming, but she intends to keep that promise even if it kills her. "You can't keep running from this."

"What would you have me do?" Callen backs off just enough to not be encroaching on her space anymore, looking vaguely surprised in a way that makes her wonder if he was honestly expecting her to give up that easily, and Hetty raises her tea to her lips, reminding herself that he has no way of knowing just how personal this is for her. "Turn myself in?"

"Hardly," she murmurs, setting her tea cup back on the table and keeping her hands carefully away from the gun she's taken off of the dead man because she's all too aware of the Walther still in his hand. "I'm setting up an office for NCIS in California. It's undercover and highly specialized, the type of thing that could use someone with your skill set."

" _Navy cops?"_ Callen huffs a laugh that's equal parts amused and completely incredulous, the sound far lighter and freer than anything she's heard from him yet and Hetty has to swallow hard because in that moment he looks so much like Clara that it makes her heart twist. "You have got to be kidding me. What, did someone steal Popeye's spinach?"

"No, not quite," Hetty purses her lips together to hide a smile and glances over his shoulder to collect her thoughts, because she's got to choose her words even more carefully unless she wants to put him in the kind of danger she's trying to avoid. "You've made powerful enemies, Mr. Callen. The kind that aren't going to stop just because you're not in the game anymore."

"And you think getting back in the game is going to be my salvation, Ms. Lange." There's an edge of derision in his tone now. He's mocking her, in that and his constant use of her surname, and Hetty grits her teeth and refuses to rise to the bait, she's not about to be deterred that easily.

"A chance for redemption, perhaps," she murmurs, _for both of us_ , because the skeletons in her closet have started to resemble the Paris catacombs. She's made her peace with those ghosts already though, even if his mother will always be the biggest regret of her life, but she has no doubt that he's got ghosts of his own, _regrets_ of his own, and just maybe this can be a second chance for her to do more than keep a promise to a dead woman.

Callen drops his head forward and chuckles weakly, though it isn't nearly as carefree and light. He sounds world weary and disillusioned, and Hetty can't help but wonder just how many times he's been burned in life to doubt her this completely. Clara's son shifts suddenly, moving closer to the window to stare out over Red Square for a long moment before his gaze drops down to the gun in his hand, and he holsters the Walther P99 at the small of his back in one smooth motion. There's honest curiosity in his eyes when he turns back to her, buried under a practiced hardness that's as much a defense as it is a warning, "What makes you think I'm interested in redemption, Ms. Lange?"

"Because," Hetty lifts her eyes to his and wills him to believe her because she's running out of time to keep him safe from the Roma. _Because you saved those girls in Pilda,_ Hetty thinks, followed closely by _because you haven't killed me yet._ He hasn't killed anyone from the CIA or Interpol teams sent to bring him in either, Hetty realizes. "Because you never stopped trying to protect people, Agent Callen."


	4. She's tiny, but very tough

**A/N:** I hope this chapter lives up to the wait because certain parts were proving a lot harder to write than I'm used to. The Callen that we see in season 1 is still very untrusting and wary of just about everyone, except of course for Sam and Hetty, but the part that stood out to me is just how defined he is by the job. Being an agent is a huge part of who he is and how he sees himself and I hope I did that justice. I'd love to hear what you think and as always reviews feed the muse! Thanks again, Riptide.

Chapter 4: "She's tiny, but very tough."

 _Kipen', Russia_

 _ **October 26, 2006**_

It's the CIA that finds him, ten days after Hetty kills the Bratva shooter in his apartment in Moscow. In retrospect, he supposes he should have been expecting this because if the Bratva and Hetty Lange can find him, then so can the CIA and every other alphabet agency that's gunning for him at the moment, but hindsight is twenty/twenty and only useful if you survive long enough to use it.

Russia has always felt painfully familiar, far more so than the west coast of the US where he'd grown up or any of the other places he's been to thanks to his former job, and he's grown complacent here. Even in his days of running black ops in Western Europe, the old Soviet Union was always a place of relative safety. He's forgotten that sometimes _safe_ is the most dangerous thing in the world and its come back to bite him with a vengeance because there's no way they should have been able to get as close as they did.

He's walking along the side of the road in Kipen', a little town maybe an hour and a half south of St. Petersburg, debating whether he can make it to the next town over before dark when a chill sweeps along his spine and raises the fine hairs at the nape of his neck.

He's being watched, followed too most likely, and his fingers twitch instantly to brush over the grip of the Walther in the back of his waistband and the ka-bar hidden along his belt. The knife's old, handle worn in places and a good sized chip missing out the blade from the time he'd almost been strangled by a Turkish traitor with a logging chain, but it'd been a gift from an old friend and he can't bring himself to replace it. He pulls the knife now and tucks it up into the sleeve of his jacket, ready at hand and a lot less conspicuous than the pistol.

His rental car's parked three blocks away, outside a rundown apartment complex and with the rest of his weapons in the trunk, and Callen curses the fact that he'd sacrificed the ability for a quick getaway. It's a rookie mistake and he _knows_ better, _damn it,_ but he hasn't seen even the hint of a tail in over a week and he'd thought he'd been safe. _Safe,_ Callen chuckles hollowly to himself, derision coloring the sound because he's a fugitive from just about every intelligence agency in the book. He doesn't have the luxury of safe.

He remembers Hetty Lange in his apartment in Moscow with a dead man on the floor and the scent of Jasmine tea, _You've made powerful enemies, Mr. Callen,_ and wonders again just what exactly she knows about those enemies. He's not naïve, hasn't been since he was fourteen and thought of the Rostoffs as family for a whole three months, and he's been in the game entirely too long to take anything at face value. She knows more than she's letting on, that goes almost without saying, but she's had a handful of chances to try to kill him already and hasn't and that has to count for something, even if it's not quite trust.

He darts between two cars and a bus to get to the other side of the highway and whirls on his heel at the curb to scan the street behind him. There's four men in matching black suits hustling over the crosswalk half a block down, they're almost painfully obvious to anyone who knows what to look for and Callen grins to himself because it's nice to know that the CIA hasn't developed subtlety in the five years since he left.

The former agent cups his hands into loose fists at his sides and pivots to stalk down the sidewalk in the opposite direction, heading toward his car and away from the majority of the citizens of Kipen' because if these guys are Agency spooks than collateral damage is secondary to completing their objective and he's not about to let anyone else get caught up in a trap meant for him. The side of the Agency that he'd been involved with had been brutally, coldly, efficient. The moment you were no longer useful you became expendable and he'd done things in the name of freedom and country that violated every single moral of the civilized society he was fighting to protect. He'd been good at it in a way that still doesn't fail to make his skin crawl but he'd never _enjoyed_ it. That aspect of the Agency had been necessary, unavoidable in a way because if not him than someone else, and he'd been easily one of the Agency's best.

The men following him, Callen has no doubt, have been part of that same side of the CIA and that makes them dangerous, not just to him, but to everyone around him and all the things he knows that no one should ever find out about.

Another half a block down and Callen grins frighteningly wide as a hand lands heavily on his shoulder. They're trying to box him in, but they've got absolutely no idea just how very outclassed they are and Callen feels the ruthlessness of his CIA days creeping up on him in the instant before he grabs the hand that's landed on his shoulder and twists. He wrenches the man's arm up behind his back until he's on his tiptoes trying to alleviate the pressure and shoves him hard enough to send him stumbling right into another of the Agency's trained monkeys.

Their fight evolves from there, takes on a life and will all its own. It's a perfectly choreographed dance, gracefully deadly and one where a misstep is lethal, and Callen feels a sick kind of exhilaration wash over him because there's something thrillingly _alive_ in fighting for one's life. It makes him wonder, in some small corner of his mind that's not occupied with stopping them from bashing his head in, just what kind of man that makes him that he has to be about to die to feel like he's really living.

He steps around an uppercut, fists a hand in the back of the man's collar, slams his head into the side of the hydro pole that's three feet to his right, and then he ducks half a second before thing two slashes a knife over his head. He can feel the swish of the blade in the air where his cheek was seconds ago and Callen growls low in the back of his throat, feeling adrenaline rushing in like a flash of fire under his skin. There's something heady and primal in this and he hates the fact that he's reveling in it as he slips his own ka-bar into his hand and swipes it out in the air between them, forcing the other man back because as much as he's fighting for his life he doesn't particularly want to have to kill anyone. They're just following orders and he knows that feeling as well as he knows the pattern of his own skin because he's been the good soldier before and he know just what kinds of things you'll do for the sake of orders.

He swipes out again with the ka-bar, pressing his advantage and half hoping that they'll back off, and he almost gets away with it. He sees surprise flicker for half a second in the big man with the knife's dark eyes and then the next thing he realizes is that his knife is skittering away across pitted asphalt and there's pain flaring sharp and bright from the tips of his fingers half way up his elbow and the big guy's partner is there, bringing back the hand that he's just used to knock Callen's knife away.

He swallows back a curse and has to resist the urge to curl the limb into his chest like a wounded animal. Instead Callen brings the same hand up to block the swing that the big guy's partner is aiming at his head, the blow glances off his forearm sending a shockwave of pins and needles radiating up to his shoulder and he very nearly drops his guard a moment too early because he's just about forgotten about the first spook who's managed to climb back to his feet.

There's a moment of half-baked consideration, it's three on one and Callen's smiling because he's faced worse odds before and come out on top and all of a sudden they don't seem nearly as sure of themselves. He can feel the first spook at his back, back on his feet now and nursing what's probably the beginning of a pretty nasty concussion but he's either far more determined or he's taking it personally because he makes a wild lunge at Callen's exposed back before the former agent can turn on him.

He manages to wrench one of Callen's arms up behind his back, hard enough that his shoulder's threatening to pop out of place and every muscle in his body is tensed in agony, demanding that he try to pull away. Instead he steps backwards, throws his weight into the move instead of away and slams his attacker back into the side of the crappy little sub-compact car that's parked along the side of the curb. He hears something crack, sharp and out of place, watches as the little red car's side mirror snaps loose under the force of the agent's blow and goes skittering across the pavement, feels the spook's breath get knocked out of him as it tickles his ear in a hard exhale, and then the world resets and Callen's moving instantly.

He takes a chance and throws his elbow back hard, grins to himself when he hits flesh instead of the side of the car, and when the man lists to the side he slams the back of his fist up into the agent's nose and steps out of the now lax hold. The other two have gone for their weapons by now though and Callen only makes it another half a step before there are matching Beretta 92s in his face and the big guy's smirking in a way that sets his teeth on edge, "Don't move, Agent Callen. It's over."

Callen's smiling though even as he brings his hands up in a show of surrender, and there's no humor in the move, just bitterness and a cold apathy that's terrifying because this is the Ghost making a reappearance and the same slow-burning rage that had let him preside over black sites for the CIA and chip away little pieces of his soul in the name of freedom and country. These are just men following orders though, he reminds himself, because he's managed to get away without killing anyone from the government teams this long and he's got no intention of starting now.

He steps closer when the big guy glances away to check on the agent on the ground behind him, grins when the man's eyes snap up at the same time as his gun. There's worry hiding behind his glare and Callen feels his heart twist into something that's equal parts sympathy and vindictiveness because it's painfully clear to him now that those two are the same kind of partners that he'd had with Matt, the kind that was more friends and brothers in arms than colleagues. He's become an international fugitive because of that, because he'd killed the man who shot his partner and then hunted down the woman who'd sold them out. He wonders vaguely what Matt would think of him if he knew because his partner had always been the upstanding one of the two of them, with the wife and daughter and the white picket fence.

"Don't move, Agent Callen," the big guy orders, dragging his gaze away from his downed partner long enough to motion the third man, the one who'd pulled a knife on G earlier, toward the injured agent and Callen stomps ruthlessly on the tinge of understanding that wraps itself around his heart. He doesn't want to sympathize with men who've been sent to bring him in, who'll kill him without a second thought if he gives them half a reason, but he's been on the other side of this, been in their shoes more times than he cares to remember and there's no denying the parallels.

He hasn't been an agent in almost a year and a half but it's as much a part of him now as ever, as deeply ingrained as breathing and he's starting to suspect just as vital because if there's anything the last several months have taught him it's that he's terrible at being a civilian, and it's the agent in him that saves him now. He can feel the Ghost creeping up on him, all cold, directionless rage and an apathy that's terrifying and for a moment he wants nothing more than to tear it all down, to make these partners feel the same kind of guilt and pain that he does when he thinks of Matt and the family his partner left behind, and in that instant it's Hetty Lange that saves them all.

 _A chance for redemption, Mr. Callen,_ he hears and it resonates with him in a way he'd failed to see before. _We both know you never stopped acting as one._

 _Because you never stopped trying to protect people,_ _ **Agent**_ _Callen…_

And the world twists beneath his feet and rearranges itself in a whole new order. He's an agent, always has been, and it's _defining_ in a way it wasn't before because there's no other option left open to him that he can live with. He remembers Hetty quoting Churchill to him in his apartment in Moscow, _the only thing necessary for the triumph of evil,_ and he can't be the man doing nothing any longer.

Callen hasn't thought of himself as a good man in a very long time, but he can't sit on the sidelines any longer and the need to get away from them is suddenly itching under his skin because there's no chance for redemption waiting in the wings if he goes with them today. He knows how the CIA operates. He'll be dead within the week, interrogated first and then silenced for all the things he knows that they'd prefer no one knew about.

They've closed in on him now. The big guy is still a handful of steps in front of him, Beretta 92fs trained on him in a way that makes him suspect that he's made this personal by going after his partner and Callen eyes him for the space of a couple of heartbeats before he throws himself to the side.

He gets behind the other two agents, watches as the big guy's features crease in frustration because he can't take a shot now without risking hitting his partner and then Callen's grin turns sharp. This is the Ghost come out to play, distilled rage tempered just slightly by his new worldview. He might not be the good man Hetty Lange seems convinced he is but he'll play at it as long as he can because Callen's nothing if not a good con.

He lands a blow on the back of the closest agent's neck, dropping him unconscious in a gangly heap of limbs and then he latches on the other man's shirt collar, the same man he'd slammed in the side of the car earlier, and shoves him head long into the big guy's chest. And then he whirls on his heel just as a sixth sense raises the hairs at the nape of his neck and Callen pulls up short because there's a gun in his face and _four men crossing the street behind him earlier_ and _damn it_ but it's a rookie mistake and he knows better.

"Callen," The fourth man greets, voice oozing charm in a way that G knows from experience is as phony as a two dollar bill. It still doesn't fail to make his skin crawl. "How the mighty have fallen, my friend."

"We were never friends, Kort," Callen murmurs. Then he's tipping his head in surprise and taking in the agency issue weapon in his former partner's hands, "but I never thought I'd see you toeing the company line again."

Trent spreads his hands wide in something that might be supplication on any other man, to Callen it comes across just as fake as his smile because he knows Trent Kort far too well to think that he's ever been sincere about anything in his life, "What can I say? I know better than to burn my bridges."

Callen barks a laugh at that, the sound harsh and surprised because it's been nearly eight years and he's almost forgotten just how fork tongued Kort can be, "Just not your partners, as I remember."

The CIA agent grimaces, a facsimile of sympathy twisting his handsome features and Callen notes distantly that he hasn't changed a bit since Budapest. His hair's still as severely close cropped as Callen remembers, barely more than a shadow of stubble along his scalp, and he carries himself with the same smooth self-assurance that had instantly made Callen distrust him all those years ago. "Side effects of the job, I'm afraid, old friend. You have to know that wasn't personal."

"Nothing ever is with you, Kort." Callen grins, spreading his hands carefully in a mirror of the other man's pose as he edges forward a step, "but you'll have a to forgive me for taking it that way."

"Your prerogative I suppose, partner. But I have a job to do, Callen," Trent raises his shoulders in a shrug that's anything but casual, and G tenses in anticipation, rocking his weight forward onto the balls of his feet as his former partner brings his Beretta to bear, "and right now you're it."

"You'll have to forgive me this too, _partner_ ," Callen's grin turns feral, his tone caustic and Trent has just enough time to frown in confusion before Callen's lashing out, the toe of his boot knocking the gun out of his old colleague's hands. "It isn't personal."

And then he's running back the way they came because if he can get to the corner, maybe into one of the industrial buildings lining the sidewalk then he stands half a chance at ducking out of here before the CIA agents get their wits together enough to follow him. He's three steps away from an emergency door on the closest cover, the cold fall air sharp in the back of his throat, and Callen has half a second to think that he's going to get away with it before his shoulder erupts in fire and the world spins.

The force of it spins him bodily around, hard enough that his back connects with the wall of the old factory building and his momentum pushes the air from his lungs and Callen gets a split second view of Trent Kort standing down the sidewalk, his Beretta back in hand, outstretched in his direction before he's forcing his feet to move. There's blood welling under his jacket, sickly warm and causing the fabric to stick to his skin and Callen stumbles, pain flaring in sparks behind his eyes.

He can't stay here though, the knowledge sears into the back of his mind, burning in urgency under his skin because he's as good as dead if he doesn't _move_ and Callen reaches around, left handed and fumbling because his right arm hangs useless and numb at his side, to pull his Walther P99 from behind his back. He lays down cover fire, the shots wild and reckless until they scatter, and forces his knees not to buckle as he staggers for the emergency door.

There's a shelving unit immediately to the right of the door and Callen wraps the fingers of his one good hand around the upright support and throws his weight against it until the whole thing topples across the doorway, and then he staggers backwards as his vision dims and blurs. It's not going to stop them for long, Trent Kort has always been nothing if not determined, but he's in no shape to put up any kind of a fight and Callen makes it another handful of steps, leaning heavily against the wall before his legs turn to jelly and the floor rushes up to greet him.

His injured shoulder impacts heavily with the concrete, pain spiking along his nerves and Callen has just long enough to think that he must be hallucinating because there's short, hurried footsteps vibrating in the ground under his cheek and Hetty Lange frowning down at him.

" _Mr. Callen_ ," he thinks he hears, her voice tinged in concern and just before he loses his grip on reality he imagines a small hand and cool fingers brushing the hair from his forehead, " _Peace now. I've got you."_


	5. Epilogue pt 1

**A/N:** I have to say a huge thank you to everyone who has reviewed, followed, and added this story to favorites and a special shout out goes to I Feel Possessed and my friend JaniceS whose kind words and encouragement has kept me writing. I hope this chapter lives up to expectations. It sort of got away from me and ended up ballooning so I've broken the epilogue into two pieces (meaning that there will be one more chapter after this one) which I hope isn't too confusing. Thanks again, Riptide.

 _Epilogue: Part 1_

 _He's dead._ Callen thinks the first time he swims his way back to consciousness because he's laying down and there's something soft under his cheek and his partner's sitting across from him, feet propped up on the edge of the coffee table between them and crossed at the ankles.

His very _dead_ partner.

Callen swallows thickly because his mouth feels like it was stuffed with cotton and there's a thousand apologies clogging at the back of his throat. This is the same partner that had had his back for over two years, the same partner that had invited him over for weekend football games and Saturday night dinner, the same partner that he'd gotten killed and nothing he can say is going to make up for that. None of the apologies lining his throat are going to bring his partner back to the wife and little girl he'd left behind.

"You're not," Matt says suddenly and Callen feels something in his chest constrict because he sounds exactly the same in death as he did in life and he doesn't know how to reconcile it with the memory of his partner bleeding out that's playing behind his eyelids.

"Not what?" Callen croaks, half impressed that he's managed to find his voice at all as he wedges his palms against the couch cushions and pushes himself upright. His limbs feel weighed down and oddly weightless all at the same time and his boots hit the rug with a thunk that reverberates in his skull.

"Not dead, stupid," Matt grins and just for a moment Callen can't breathe because he's thought a thousand times of what he might say in this moment but nothing seems right, or even remotely adequate.

He brings his hands up to scrub down his face and drags his fingers through his hair. None of this makes even the slightest bit of sense and when he closes his eyes it's to a flicker of a memory of a gunshot on the sidewalk in Kipen' and the specter of Henrietta Lange. He drops his hands back down to his lap, feeling strangely numb in a way he thinks he should probably be worried about, and peers across at Matt for a long moment before he accuses, "You're not real."

"Nothing gets past you, partner." Matt drawls, voice so loaded with sarcasm and an achingly familiar amusement that G feels moisture prickling sharp and uncomfortable at the back of his eyes because Matt had been the closest thing he had to a friend, to just maybe _family_ , in a very long time and he's _missed_ this. "You sure know how to make a guy feel special, G."

"I'm hallucinating," Callen concludes and he thinks that maybe that shouldn't be the most normal thing he's heard yet, "Or I'm dreaming. Either way this isn't _real."_

Matt shrugs, the move carefree and open in exactly the way G remembers because Matt had always been the one of them who had a life that didn't include the job. He'd had a future and the white picket fence home that Callen had given up on. "It's real enough, to you at least."

Callen barks a laugh at that, the sound sharp and just as surprising to him as it is to the walking-talking memory of his dead partner and when it comes across as a little unhinged he thinks that just maybe he's entitled.

"This is insane," he snaps, voice loud and far too harsh and it echoes in the space between them before he lurches off the couch on surprisingly unsteady feet and turns his back on it all.

"You're _dead_ ," he murmurs back over his shoulder, "and I'm talking to myself because _none of this is real_ and I don't-" He sucks in a breath between gritted teeth and then another when the first only makes his head feels like it's going to explode because he doesn't know where to go with that or what he's supposed to say except _I'm sorry_ or _This was all my fault,_ both completely true and so very _weak._

"Why now?" He demands in the next breath, suddenly irrevocably angry because it's been nearly two years and three continents and he's become an international fugitive for this but he can't ever seem to out run it and he _hates_ running, especially like this. Callen jerks around then because Matt might not be real, but right at the moment he's too angry to care, "Why are you-"

And then the anger evaporates as quickly as it had come, words getting caught in the back of his throat, clogging and acidic because Matt's stood as well to mirror his position and suddenly Callen can't breathe because of course this ghost image of his partner has to be a perfect carbon copy to the day he was killed, same dark wash jeans cuffed over his work boots, same ratty leather jacket, same black button up shirt soaked in his own blood.

"Don't look at me, G." Matt shrugs again and Callen has to swallow hard, fighting down the guilt that's welling in his gut and the urge to be sick because when he moves the fabric of his shirt sticks, wet and shiny in the light, and when his partner grins there's blood on his teeth and bubbling up on his lips, "Technically, I'm not real."

"I'm _so sorry,"_ he chokes out, voice cracking on every single one of the apologies lining his throat and then instantly regrets it. If it wasn't for him, Matt would still be alive and he's got no right to ask for any kind of absolution.

"Occupational hazard, partner." Matt argues, and Callen drags his gaze away from the blood soaking his shirt to meet green eyes that somehow don't hold an ounce of blame. "This was never on you."

"Yes," Callen argues instantly because he's never going to forget anything about that day and there's no one else left to blame. "It is. If I had gotten there sooner, if I had known we were compromised-"

"But you didn't," Matt snaps, and there's honest to goodness anger in his partner's eyes that startles Callen. "You couldn't have known, G. You keep this up though and I _will_ haunt your ass."

"I thought you weren't real," Callen jokes stepping closer with careful controlled movements, but there's a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth because this is the Matt that he remembers, all bluster and bravado and concern hidden behind a sharp tongue and cheap threats.

Matt chuckles lowly, and the sound echoes cavernous and all-encompassing in Callen's ears, and G smiles, wide and genuine for the first time in a very long while. His partner had been one of the very few people he cared about for nearly three years and he's half way around the globe but this feels scarily like coming home, like _family_ , and Callen frowns suddenly.

"I killed them," G murmurs, because nothing he does is going to bring his partner back but just maybe there's some semblance of peace to be had for Matt in knowing that the people responsible aren't still out there. He can't bring himself to regret killing the man who'd shot his partner or hunting down the woman who'd sold them out, not even now when it's taken him three continents and every agency in the book breathing down his neck. "I killed them both, Matt."

"You think that's what I would have wanted, G?" Matt's voice is dangerously calm, anger glinting sharply along his features and the blood bubbling up on his lips stands out vivid and accusing, "We're supposed to protect people. That's what I would have wanted, Callen."

"What was I supposed to do?" Callen snaps then, anger and defensiveness welling up and burning sharp along his nerves because the thought of letting the people that killed his partner get away is so very unthinkable that it makes his skin prickle in uneasy in a way that even the terrible things he'd done for the CIA had failed to touch. He's heaped up a lot of regrets and a lifetime worth of do-overs, but he thinks that he'll take every single one of them and still not regret avenging Matt's death. "Just let it go? Let them get away?"

"Yes," Matt shakes his head, speaking slowly like he's talking to a particularly dull rookie in a way that makes rage flare up, sharp and bright in his chest in a way that's out of character because Callen's always been the level headed one with an anger that was more cold and calculated than Matt had ever been capable of. "You're going to get yourself killed, G."

"I don't _care,"_ Callen hisses. He's not yelling, but somehow he feels like he should be and he rounds the table in sharp, jerky steps until he's toe to toe with Matt, glaring up at his dead partner because he's always been annoyingly tall and Callen's never resented that quite as much as right now. "I _don't-"_

"I know," Matt reaches up to drag his fingers through his blonde hair in frustration, anguish outlined in his eyes before he modulates his voice to a mocking parody of Callen's. "You're 'Mister I'll die on the job'. I get it. But G you might not care, but I _do."_

Callen turns away at that. He has to, because Matt had been the only one to care in a very long time and there's moisture prickling uncomfortably sharp at the back of his eyes and G doesn't have a choice but to turn his back on it all or he's going to lose what little bit of control he has left. He stays that way for a long time, long enough to box up this desperate need that's curling around his soul because Matt had been the closest thing he'd had to a friend, to _family,_ in years and he's _missed_ this in a way that he thought he'd lost the ability to.

He stands like that until he thinks he can face the walking talking memory of his dead partner again and by the time he turns around Matt's gone, the room empty behind him except for sunlight streaming in the window and dust mites dancing in the light.

"Matt?" He asks, his voice echoing along the walls and the sound expands, ringing in his ears as the walls wash out around him and the next thing he knows the couch cushions are rushing up to meet him.


	6. Epilogue pt 2

**A/N:** I kind of can't believe it but this story is finally at the last chapter. There is a sequel of sorts in the works and a summary of that possible sequel at the bottom of this. I'd love to know if any of you would be interested in seeing that eventually. An enormous Thank You goes out to everyone who has stuck around with this story and for all the kind words, favorites, and follows! Thank you all and as always reviews feed the plot bunnies, Riptide!

 _Epilogue: Part 2_

 _Washington, D.C., USA_

 _ **January 3, 2007**_

It's dark by the time Hetty steps into the elevator of her apartment building on the east side of Arlington. She's been stuck in closed door meetings for the entirety of the day, juggling back room politics and bureaucrats with more hidden agendas than she can shake a stick at all through the holidays and Hetty feels like she has her own personal Grinch on her shoulder because this is the last place on earth she wants to be right now.

She drops her hand down into her bag, fingering the memory stick that contains all the information that her contacts had managed to collect on the whereabouts of Clara Callen's son. There's giga-bites of data on there and she can sum it all up in one word: _nothing._ The elevator jolts gently to a stop on the tenth and top floor and Hetty steps lightly into the hallway, feeling the remembered panic that had surged sharp and surprisingly strong in her heart upon finding him in that industrial building in Kipen'. It had taken every ounce of her considerable training to protect him in the way that she'd failed to do for his mother and there's guilt settling like a stone down into her bones because she's beginning to suspect that nothing she does is ever going to make up for that single all-encompassing failure.

He'd been starting to trust her, Hetty was sure that she'd been making some kind of headway with this man that she'd sworn a dead woman she'd protect, at least until Kipen'. Finding him in that industrial building had been more luck than skill on her part and Hetty's painfully aware of just how close they'd come to being caught by the CIA team sent to take him out. He'd already been in rough shape by the time she'd gotten there and it had taken every single one of her skills and a handful of called in favors to get them both out of Russia and over the border to her safe house in Narva, Estonia, a beautiful, quaint little town just over the Russian border.

Hetty had called one of her oldest friends on their way out of Russia, an army nurse that she'd met on a fateful Thursday afternoon in Vietnam following a Viet Cong air strike. They'd remained friends in the years following, even over four and a half decades and two continents, and Annie Prost had been the only one Hetty had thought to trust when she'd had Clara's son bleeding out in her backseat. Annie had been the exact same as Hetty remembered, working with steady hands, a quick mind, and sharper tongue, her English accent firmly in place and as inscrutable as ever.

She'd raised a single eyebrow when Hetty had served them tea and scones with shaking hands while watching over the sleeping form of Clara's son. _"You care about this boy, Herta. I can see it in your eyes."_

" _He's a good man, Annie."_ She'd remarked, sipping her tea with a kind of desperate focus that begged the other woman not to push.

Annie Prost had never been particularly good at letting sleeping dogs lie though. _"No,"_ She murmured, mischief twinkling in bright grey eyes, _"He is something special to you, Herta. Something I haven't seen in you in a very long time. Hope."_

Hetty reached out to unlock her apartment door, slipping the key back into her pocket and feeling every single one of her years with a weariness that settles down on her shoulders and into the pit of her stomach. There's worry that's decidedly not for herself compressing her lungs and making it hard to breathe and a niggling sense that she's no longer alone prickling against her skin as she steps inside and reaches up to flip on the light with one hand on her gun.

Hetty pulls her Sig Sauer P290 as she steps into the kitchen, noting the empty coffee cup on her otherwise immaculate countertop with confusion because she has a million and one enemies and not a single one of them would break into her penthouse just to help themselves to her French press. There's a rumpled old leather jacket folded over the back of one of her kitchen stools and Hetty raises her Sig as she turns the corner into the living room, weapon pointed at the figure standing silhouetted at the side of her balcony window.

Clara Callen's son turns to face her, blue eyes sparkling in amusement in the low lighting and Hetty splutters to a halt, feeling relief fighting with disbelief for dominance because she hasn't seen even a hint of him since he disappeared from her safe house two days after Kipen' and she'd begun to fear the worst. "Mr. Callen," she murmurs, reminiscent of the first time she'd laid eyes on the man she was sworn to protect. "You're a hard man to find."

"What can I say?" He shrugs then, careless and perfectly controlled and every inch the CIA agent he used to be as he cocks an eyebrow at the still raised Sig Sauer in her hands. "HetI hate to disappoint."

Hetty makes a soft noise of disapproval in the back of her throat, crossing the room to lay her gun and purse on the coffee table before she reaches out to flick on the side table lamp. It casts dim light around the room, defining shadows in the corners and Callen steps forward into the light, twirling his k-bar between the fingers of his right hand, the same knife she'd retrieved from the sidewalk in Kipen' after he'd been shot.

She steps up to his side, quiet footsteps on the carpet of her penthouse suite as she refuses to contemplate how he found her. She's been looking for him across the globe, but not in her own backyard and she desperately wants to ask how he managed to not only sneak back into the country but also find her apartment when there's people she's worked with for years that still know far less about her life outside the office. Instead she tilts her head back to regard this man that she's sworn to protect as he sheaths the blade behind his back and faces her in return, "You took quite the risk coming here, Mr. Callen."

"Audaces fortuna iuvat," he says, lips curling up into a smirk that's equal parts cunning and daring and reminds her completely of the cat that ate the canary before it gentles into a genuine smile that's so eerily like Clara that Hetty has to turn away to stare out at the nightscape beyond her balcony for a long moment. "Besides," He murmurs, speaking up when she can't, "I heard there was work to be found here for someone with my skill set."

"Fortune favors the bold," Hetty translates automatically, before her mind catches up with his words and her dark eyes are flying to his face, trying belatedly to hide her surprise because he's already reading her far too well and there's danger to be found for him in knowing about any of the things she's determined to hide. There's no doubt in her mind about how he'd react to the knowledge about his mother and she's come too far in this to let Clara's son make a suicide run at the Roma.

"Does that mean you've changed your mind, Agent Callen?" Hetty asks, pleased when her voice comes out far steadier than she feels because she remembers a conversation half a world away and she can feel that chance for redemption now, for both of them.

"Yes," G says and it feels like freedom and falling and _coming home_ in almost the same way as seeing the ghost of his dead partner, and he pushes down the disquiet that's rising up in him because this feels too good to be true. "But I have my own terms, Ms. Lange."

Hetty huffs a laugh, the sound incredulous and nowhere near as surprised as she thinks she should be. Then she raises an eyebrow at him and waits because he's so very clearly his mother's son and she can see Clara's stubbornness in the blue eyes that they share. Distantly she realizes that somewhere along the way it's ceased to be painful to see those eyes again.

"I work alone, or not at all." Callen turns away, staring out into the middle distance at something she thinks that only he can see for a long moment and when he looks back at her his eyes are hard, lined with grief and lit from behind by a guilt that she sees every day in the mirror. "It can't be my fault again, Ms. Lange. Those are my conditions."

Hetty purses her lips and fights down the urge to argue because she knows how to pick her battles and at least this way he'll be safe, as safe as he can be while doing this job and with the threat of the Roma two continents away. She'll have to do something about them, she realizes, eventually, because they're never going to stop coming and she's never going to stop trying to make up for Clara. Finally Hetty nods, feeling some of the weight roll off her shoulders and morph into curiosity, "What made you reconsider, _Agent_ Callen?"

"The ghost of Christmas past." He murmurs before he smiles then, bittersweet and tinged with quiet amusement, because _'We're supposed to protect people'_ and _'you might not care, but I_ _ **do**_ _'_. He remembers the complete lack of blame in Matt's eyes and his partner's smile the first time he'd held his friend's baby daughter. "Let's just say an old friend reminded me why we do this."

Hetty frowns, worry and something else she can't name constricting around her heart because she's seen just how far some men will go to make peace with the ghosts of the past and Hetty's beginning to suspect that she might have saved him from the Roma only to lose him to himself. She's already seen just how far he'll go, just how much he was willing to lose for the sake of justice for his former partner and Hetty looks up, trying to catch his eyes but Clara's son's not looking at her, "You can't save everyone."

"No," he agrees, staring out at ash gray skies and the still frozen over waters of the Potomac for a handful of heartbeats and when he turns back to her there's something brittle in his eyes, a fledgling hope that twists something sharp and surprisingly fierce in her gut, "but we can save a few, and I have to believe that that's enough."

Hetty nods then, gentle and slow because she feels that anything more is going to shatter this fragile thing that just might be trust between them. She thinks of the Scotch she's been saving then, for a special occasion, and decides that this chance for redemption that she's been given counts if nothing else. She steps away from his side, crossing to the pantry to retrieve the Booker's 25th Anniversary that she's held on to for the better part of a year, and then slips into the kitchen for glasses and by the time she comes back Clara's son hasn't moved.

Hetty presses a glass into his hands, remembers his mother and a stolen phone call and _'Promise me you'll keep him safe'_ and smiles because it might have been three decades in the coming, but _finally_ and she thinks _'He's safe, Clara. I'll keep him safe'_ and it's a promise, a vow to match the one she never kept to his mother. "Welcome _home_ , Mr. Callen."

He smiles then to match her, genuine and bittersweet but Hetty sees the same blossoming hope in his eyes that she feels welling up in her chest and she imagines that somewhere, somehow Clara's smiling down at them.

 _ **The End.**_

P.S. If you're interested, please take a look at some of my other NCIS: Los Angeles fics.

 _Catching Fire: "Love is like a friendship caught on fire..." Deeks has been out of contact with his partner for over a month, when Callen breaks into his house with information that Kensi's classified mission is about to go sideways. Set after 5:14 'War Cries'. Complete._

 _Strength in My Weakness: "Convince me that my partner didn't die for nothing." Because there are some people that you aren't just willing to die for. There are some that you'll kill for. Episode Tag to 6x16 "Expiration Date". In progress._

 _Forged In Fire: When Sam Hanna and his partner go missing while undercover with a group of anarchists, The American Revolution Movement, Hetty calls in her resident black ops expert. A former CIA agent with a checkered past, G Callen is NCIS' secret weapon but he's adamantly against working with a partner. He's a loner, always has been, but won't be for much longer if Hetty has her way. Pre-series. Coming Soon._


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